


it’s all about that mise, ‘bout that mise (don’t wing it)

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2017 [4]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Backstory, Cooking, Fluff and Humor, Hiroko is awesome, Iron Chef - Freeform, M/M, Restaurants, the things we don't know about our parents come back to haunt us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 05:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13023939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: Victor thinks Hiroko is going to be impressed by the fancy restaurant in Tokyo. Ah, Victor, you sweet summer child...





	it’s all about that mise, ‘bout that mise (don’t wing it)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DemonicSymphony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicSymphony/gifts).



> It’s the fourth night of Hanukkah, and today’s fic was prompted by demonicsymphony, who at this point really just needs to show up since I know exactly what they’re going to request. (Basically; the current fandom obsession's version of [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/896418)). I had a great deal of fun binging on a certain cooking show before writing. While this is… probably skirting a little closer to RPF than I’d normally like, since no one really shows up for long, I’m not going to worry too much about it. And they all want Mama Katsuki’s recipe for katsudon anyway.
> 
> Inspiration for the title and summary go to Meghan Trainor and George R.R. Martin respectively.

“It’s one of the best restaurants in the city, Mama Hiroko,” gushed Victor as he helped Hiroko out of the car. “Of course it’s not as good as your cooking, but I think you’re going to _love_ it.”

“Ohhhhh,” said Hiroko, her eyes going wide like saucers when she saw the opulent doorway. “Anata, look at those trees. Do you think they would work in the onsen?”

“Maybe,” said Toshiya, bending down for a closer look. “I can ask inside where they found them.”

“ _Daaaaad_ ,” hissed Yuuri, already turning bright red and struggling to pull his father to his feet. “It’s a _restaurant_. You can’t ask them about the landscaping!”

“I know the owner,” said Victor cheerfully, completely nonplussed by Toshiya’s antics. “I’m sure he’d be happy to discuss landscaping.”

“Please don’t encourage him,” whispered Yuuri.

Hiroko was still ogling the entrance. “Oooo, Vic-chan! Is the owner a friend of yours?”

Victor’s expression was a bit deer-in-the-headlights. “Sort of,” he said, clearly ready to head inside and possibly change the subject, though it was unclear how that was going to happen. “Anyway, let’s go in and find our table, shall we?”

The interior of the restaurant was just as opulent and richly decorated as the exterior, though in slightly different style. Whereas the outside was made to look as traditionally Japanese as possible – and possibly slightly over the top – the interior was full of marble and polished concrete, varnished wood and decorative lighting, with tiny water falls and plants and even a koi pond.

“Oooo,” cooed Hiroko.

The maitre’d looked up from her podium and broke into a wide smile upon seeing Hiroko’s amazement.

“Hello,” said Victor with a bright wave. “Reservations for Nikiforov!”

The maitre’d, however, had an odd reaction: she blinked at Victor, as if seeing him for the first time, and her smile seemed slightly more forced than it had just a moment ago. “Ah,” she said, in perfect, British-accented English, “of course. Yes. I can seat you right away.”

There was a brief, strange tousle as the maitre’d took one of Hiroko’s arms in hers, and Victor took the other. Hiroko smiled brightly at both of them.

“What service!” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I hope we’re sitting near the kitchen.”

“Even better,” the maitre’d assured her with a smile.

The half-circle table was very nice – and instead of a view _of_ the kitchen, it was its _own_ little kitchen in the center, with a chef dressed in white with a toque so high it nearly brushed the low-hanging lights. There were white cards at every place with hand-written menus that Mari was already reading with approving nods. The table had seating for eight, but the five of them – Victor, Yuuri, Hiroko, Toshiya, and Mari – left the two end seats open.

“I wish Yuuko and Takeshi could have joined us,” said Victor cheerfully. “We’ll have to tell them about it later.”

“Hello,” said Hiroko to the chef.

The chef bowed low to Hiroko. “An honor.”

Hiroko giggled silently, clearly pleased, but her expression was back to her cheerful solemnity by the time the chef stood up again. “Are you going to cook for us tonight?”

The chef blushed. “Yes. I’m so sorry, I know you were expecting someone else—”

“Oh, no,” interjected Victor. “I’m sure Morimoto-san is very busy with other customers, and that you are very good.”

“I can’t wait to see what you give us, dear,” Hiroko assured him, and _that_ seemed to comfort the chef far more than anything Victor had said.

“Vitya, are you all right?” Yuuri whispered to Victor. “You look like you ate something sour.”

“Nope, fine, totally fine,” said Victor, and sat down next to Yuuri.

Dinner started. The chef after one deep breath and worried glance at Hiroko, began cooking at the speed of light, every movement measured and careful as he quickly chopped, minced, sliced, diced, rolled, pressed, and whatever else one did when preparing a meal. Tiny bowls of soup appeared in front of them within minutes, accompanied by tinier cups of green tea.

“First course,” announced the chef, who hadn’t broken a sweat. “Garlic rice and Iso lobster soup.”

They all leaned in to appreciate the delicious smells.

“Now, Mama Hiroko, Iso lobster is the best lobster the world,” Victor began telling Hiroko, who looked at him as if hanging on every word. “It’s much sweeter than its American counterparts, I think you’ll like this.”

Hiroko broke into a smile. “Oh, I’m sure I will.”

“Hiroko-chan! Is that you? I never thought I’d see you here!”

The man who came up to them had an enormous smile, thick salt-and-pepper hair, and a thin moustache that made him look much more dapper than he probably had a right to be – though his bearing spoke of years of being in the public eye. He bowed low to Hiroko, who tittered and bowed back, clearly pleased.

“Hiroyuki-san,” said Hiroko. “You remember my husband of course. And my children.”

“You know him?” asked Yuuri, confused.

Mari gave him an odd look. “You don’t?”

“Aiiieeee!” cried the man, going to bow to each of them in turn – though not as low as he did to Hiroko. “They are so big now! And – silver-haired!”

“Victor Nikiforov,” said Victor, getting up to bow.

“Married to my Yuuri,” added Hiroko.

“I heard. I’m still sad you didn’t let me cater,” Hiroyuki chided her.

“You can cater my wedding,” said Mari.

“Now how can I do that, when you are going to be marrying _me_?” said Hiroyuki, which made both Mari and Hiroko giggle, though Toshiya appeared less amused. “I would like to stay and chat, but I can see your soup going cold. It is so good to see you again, Hiroko-chan!”

“And you,” said Hiroko, and with another set of bows, Hiroyuki headed toward the back of the restaurant, where a hallway led him back to where the party rooms were located.

“So good to see old friends,” said Hiroko as she sat back down.

“Mmm,” agreed Toshiya, taking a slurp from his soup. “Ah, very nice!”

“Who was that?” Yuuri asked.

Mari stared at him in shock. “Are you _seri_ —?”

“Oh, old friend of your mother’s,” said Toshiya. “Victor, are you going to eat your soup? Because if not, I will.”

“No, you won’t,” Hiroko told him. “Too much salt, think of your heart.”

The chef colored. “I apologize, Hiroko-san.”

“Oh, it’s not your fault,” Hiroko comforted him. “We should have told you. Now, what are you doing with that foie gras?”

Yuuri leaned over to look with wide eyes. “ _That’s_ foie gras?” He sat back at stared at Victor. “We’re eating _foie gras_?”

Victor looked almost as alarmed – but with a different focus. “Your _mother_ knows what foie gras is?” he hissed back.

The second course was promptly plated and set in front of them as the chef announced, “Sautéed fois gras with wine and balsamic vinegar sauce.”

“Ooo,” said Toshiya, and promptly dug in.

“Ohhhhhh,” moaned Mari happily as she ate.

“Now, my recommendation with eating fois gras—” began Victor – but Hiroko had already taken a bite and was chewing thoughtfully.

“Very good!” she proclaimed, and the chef beamed.

“Hiroko-san!”

The little old man with greying, spiked hair broke into a wide smile that rivaled Hiroko’s, who immediately jumped out of her seat and grasped the man’s forearms. They bowed, holding onto each other. He was wrinkled and thin, but appeared to be as strong as ox and twice as stubborn.

“Roku-san! I didn’t think I’d see you again in this lifetime.”

“Who do you think wrote out your menu for tonight?” teased Roku, and Hiroko broke into delighted laughter.

“Of course you did! I thought I recognized the style. I can’t wait to taste everything.”

“I have more menus to write, or I’d stay and see what you think.” The little man turned and nodded to the rest of them. “Enjoy your meal!”

Hiroko took her seat again while Mari stared pointedly at Victor and Yuuri. “ _Well_?” she asked, clearly waiting for some kind of acknowledgement.

Yuuri and Victor looked at each other, both equally befuddled.

“Mama Hiroko,” said Victor, somewhat confused, “I didn’t know you knew so many people in Tokyo.”

“ _People_ ,” spluttered Mari. “You think those were just _people_?”

“Is there more fois gras?” asked Toshiya, leaning closer to where the chef was already preparing the next dish.

“No more for you,” Hiroko chided him.

“Third course,” announced the chef, putting up the plates. “Wagyu Beef Chateaubriand.”

Mari looked like she was going to die and ascend to heaven there on the spot.

Toshiya’s eyes were ready to pop with anticipation; he was already rubbing his hands together in glee.

Victor opened his mouth, ready to speak, but closed it as Hiroko peered at the dish with a critical eye as the chef held his breath, waiting.

The entire table kept silent, watching her.

Hiroko gave a sharp nod of approval, which made the chef _almost_ smile, but in truth he didn’t relax as he watched Hiroko take a piece up with her chopsticks and pop it in her mouth, watching her chew as if his very job was on the line.

“Perfectly cooked,” announced Hiroko, and only then did the chef relax.

“ _HIROKO-CHAN!!!!!_ ” shouted the man who walked into the dining room next, so loud and boisterous that Victor, Yuuri, and Mari nearly fell sideways off their chairs.

Toshiya kept on chewing, as if he lived with people randomly shouting his wife’s name at the top of their lungs every day.

“Stop that, Kaga Shusai,” Hiroko scolded him, without breaking her smile. “You’ll make all the chefs nervous.”

The man’s smile made him look exactly like a wolf – or at least someone who had something up his sleeve that he was going to try to make you eat. Everything about him seemed outrageous, from the height of his fluffy black hair, to the cut of his shiny and opulent clothing. He was wearing a simple suit, but somehow it felt like he should have been wearing a cape, and possibly carrying around bright yellow peppers from which he should take extra-large greedy bites.

“Ah, Hiroko-san,” said the man, bowing. “Of course you are the true head of whatever kitchen you’re in – no matter who wears the chef’s toque. I should have had _you_ lead one of the battles.”

Victor leaned over to Yuuri. “I recognize that voice,” he murmured. “Why do I recognize that voice?”

Yuuri shook his head and shrugged. Mari rolled her eyes and just sighed as she took another bite of beef. “You’re both idiots,” she muttered.

The flamboyant man had left, heading for the back hall just as the other two men had done, and Hiroko was already finishing her beef. “A surprise with every course!” she exclaimed. “Vic-chan, I can’t wait to see what you have planned next.”

“Me neither,” said Mari.

The fourth course was up. “Shrimp tartare with seven kinds of condiments,” said the chef.

“Oooo,” said Hiroko. “Vic-chan, which sauce do you think I should try first?”

Victor swallowed. “Ah – the red one?”

Hiroko smiled at him brightly, and was about to dip her shrimp into it when—

“Hiroko-san!” chorused the voices, as two non-Japanese men came over, bowing and reaching out their hands for her to shake.

“Bobby-san! Anatoly-san!” said Hiroko, clearly pleased to see them both. “Oh, what a lovely surprise.”

“Anywhere to see you, Hiroko-san,” said the older-looking man with a thick Russian accent. His hair was silver like Victor’s, but flopped in different ways and appeared to be thicker without a hint of thinning. Victor’s hand immediately went up to the top of his head, before he snatched it back down again, embarrassed.

“Anatoly-san, you should meet my son-in-law,” gushed Hiroko. “He’s Russian, like you! Vic-chan, say hello!”

“ _Zdravstvuyte_ ,” said Victor. “Victor Nikiforov.”

“Ah, yes, very nice to meet you,” said Anatoly, but his attention was back on Hiroko in an instant. “When are you going to eat in my restaurant, Hiroko-san? I have a table reserved just for you.”

Victor began to splutter; Yuuri patted him on the back, as if he was choking.

“ _What is he talking about?_ ” he hissed to Yuuri. “I’ve been trying to get a reservation there for _months_.”

“Stop hogging her,” scolded the other man in a flat American accent. “Hiroko, it’s lovely to see you outside Kitchen Stadium.”

“Someone has to make sure you don’t stand on the chopping board, Bobby-san,” Hiroko scolded him lightly. Bobby laughed.

“Never with you around, I learned my lesson the first time.”

“I wish we could stay and catch up,” said Anatoly. “But we’re late as it is—”

“Of course, go, go,” said Hiroko, and sat back down.

Victor’s mouth was a thin pink line as he stared suspiciously at Hiroko. “Mama Hiroko, how do you know Anatoly Komm?”

“Who, dear?” asked Hiroko, taking a demure sip of her tea.

“Anatoly Komm,” repeated Victor. “The first Russian chef to be listed in the Michelin guide. He owns a restaurant with a waiting list so long that our _grandchildren_ aren’t going to get in.”

“Oh,” said Hiroko. “I don’t really know him. He’s a friend of Bobby’s.”

Yuuri kept glancing back at the men as they disappeared down the hall. “Why do I recognize him?”

“He’s American,” suggested Hiroko. “Maybe you met him in Detroit.”

Mari could barely contain her glee. “This is _way_ better than K-drama.”

The fifth and final course was placed before them. “Cold Goto Udon noodles,” announced the chef, looking relieved to be finished.

“Mmm,” said Toshiya, completely satisfied as he let out a small burp.

“So good,” sighed Mari happily.

“Delicious,” Hiroko said, and the chef looked happy enough to die on the spot.

“Ah, I see you’re eating your last course,” said the quiet, balding man with the glasses who appeared behind Hiroko. “I meant to come out earlier, but I’m hosting a party and couldn’t step away.”

“Ah, Masaharu-san,” said Hiroko, pleased as she stood up to bow. “You’re forgiven. I know what it’s like to run a restaurant.”

Victor’s mouth dropped open. “Oh—”

Yuuri finally recognized _someone_. “—my—”

Mari fist-bumped the air. “ _Yes_ ,” she cheered, watching her brother and brother-in-law.

“You should come and say hello!” continued Morimoto Masaharu, owner and operator of multiple restaurants around the world, author of many cookbooks in many languages, star of various television cooking shows and specials, and perhaps most notably, owner of a silver Iron Chef’s uniform with red trim and pictures of the Japanese and American flags on the back – though of course it had been retired for some time, and his latest Iron Chef America uniform was the standard blue with white trim and the Japanese flag on his arm. “We’d all love to see our favorite Kitchen Stadium sous chef again.”

Victor mouthed the words _favorite Kitchen Stadium…?_

Yuuri mouthed the words _…sous chef????_

“Oh, no, Masaharu-san,” laughed Hiroko, as she stood up to bow. “I’ve already seen everyone, and besides, I’m here with my family. You remember my husband Toshiya—”

“Hello,” said Toshiya. “About your trees in the front—”

“And my daughter, Mari—”

“ _Fabulous_ dinner,” said Mari cheerfully. “Best entertainment all week.”

“And my son Yuuri and his husband, Victor Nikiforov.”

“Ah,” said Morimoto. “Yes, of course. The fake reservation under the name Nikiforov almost threw us off!”

Victor practically vibrated off his seat.

Morimoto didn’t seem to notice. “Yuuri was very small when I saw him last! We’re all very proud of him.”

Victor tuned to Yuuri and whispered, “ _You know him?!?!”_

Yuuri whispered back, “ _I have no idea what is going on, don’t blame me!_ ”

Mari cheerfully slurped up noodles.

“Of course, spend the evening with your family,” said Morimoto graciously. “But the next time you are in Tokyo, you must spend an evening with your kitchen family, too! And I insist – when you’re done here, there’s dessert waiting for you upstairs. Mascarpone ice cream with green tea!” he added, almost singing.

Hiroko patted his cheek. “My favorite, you remembered! Not for Toshiya, though. Lactose intolerant.”

Toshiya sighed and looked sad – until the chef slipped him another spoonful of fois gras.

“We’ll make sure he’s happy,” assured Morimoto, before glancing around the table. “I hope everyone enjoyed their meal!”

As Morimoto headed back to his party, Hiroko settled back down at her noodles, beaming at her family.

Only half of them beamed back. The other half – being Victor and Yuuri – stared at her in absolute shock.

“Ah,” said Victor, awkwardly.

Mari leaned over. “Mom was a sous on the original Iron Chef back in the day,” she said cheerfully. “She worked with all the Iron Chefs and a bunch of the competitors.”

“Oh, it wasn’t anything,” said Hiroko, smiling widely. “Just to bring in some extra money during the slow seasons!”

“They keep asking you back, Mom,” Mari pointed out.

“Just to be polite,” Hiroko said. “Vic-chan, dear, eat your noodles, or no dessert.”

“Mascarpone ice cream,” said Yuuri slowly, and then his eyes went wide. “Wait. Mom. The cookies in my care packages? The ones you said were made by old friends? _Who made those cookies, Mom? Who?_ ”

“I do love mascarpone ice cream,” said Hiroko, and ate up the last of her noodles.

**Author's Note:**

> All dishes eaten in the course of this fic are actually from the menu for [Morimoto XEX](https://www.yelp.com/biz/atelier-%E6%A3%AE%E6%9C%AC-xex-%E6%B8%AF%E5%8C%BA), which is located outside Tokyo. Even the mascarpone ice cream – and here's a recipe for a version that is [super easy to make and delicious](http://azriona.tumblr.com/post/168576364583/mascarpone-ice-cream), too.
> 
> In order of appearance:
> 
> Iron Chef France, Sakai Hiroyuki, who was popular among female viewers  
> Iron Chef Japan II, Michiba Rokusaburo, who famously wrote out menus by hand before starting to cook  
> Chairman Kaga (aka Kaga Shusai), who hosted the competition  
> Bobby Flay, an American competitor famed for standing on his cutting board when he was on the show  
> Anatoly Komm, a Russian chef who was never on Iron Chef, but does have hair like Victor's


End file.
